


Piss Proud and Cocksure

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: BDSM, Facials, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sniper and The Spy learn some things about one another. They also learn that knowing your enemy’s kinks is not the best leverage. </p><p>Sniper is into watersports. Spy is a cumslut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piss Proud and Cocksure

It was a low-down dirty trick, catching the Sniper literally with his pants down, but the Spy was well-acquainted with low-down dirty tricks. He was the high chancellor of low-down dirty tricks. So it was that he crept up behind the marksman, high in a roost overlooking their woodland payload tracks, while the bushman was just preparing to… eugh, ‘reload’ one of his filthy, disgusting  _jars_. 

Knife poised, the Spy crept forward with excruciating slowness, rolling heel-toe on just the outer edges of his feet so the rickety boards would not betray him. He heard the telltale splash of liquid hitting liquid, and his stomach turned over. To think that he’d fallen victim to this horrible, depraved tactic— on too many occasions!— his gut curdled and his cloaked face twisted into a grimace of utmost revulsion.

Just behind the man, with balisong raised, he glanced down to aim when a slight movement caught his eye, distracted him, and destroyed him.With the callused pad of his thumb, the Sniper was rubbing the head of his cock as he relieved himself, sucking little gasping breaths through his coffee-stained teeth. 

The Spy recoiled and stumbled back and a board creaked and the Sniper wheeled around and flung the open jar in the Spy’s general direction. It smashed at his feet and the horrifyingly still-warm contents splashed the Spy’s shoes, and even that alone was enough to reveal him to the marksman, now rising with his kukri in hand. 

He’d neglected to tuck himself back into his trousers.

The Spy stared despite himself. His rational mind told him to disassociate, to feint forward then side-step the man’s blade as he corrected his swing, disarm him at the elbow, and finish the job. But— but, those little hitched sounds in the back of his enemy’s throat— how could he?! How could he engage in something so, so  _unprofessional_ , in the middle of a battle, in the last stretch of track, while the Spy’s team edged ever closer to victory? How could he, how could he lapse like that, disrespect them all like that, with something so crude, so base, how could he find pleasure like that, in a place like this, with so vulgar, so foul an act?! The Spy was aghast.

"You’re like me own little shadow, you are," the Sniper growled. The Spy blinked, frozen, and just that was enough for the Sniper to tense, uncertain. "Wot—" he began, but then he saw the direction of the Spy’s gaze, and he laughed. "Can’t stand the sight of a knob, then, Spook? Is it because you haven’t one of yer own?" He took a few steps toward the Spy, brandishing his over-large blade with one hand and finally tucking his delicate bits away with the other. "That was a bit o’ nasty business there, wouldn’t you say? You slimy little eel, you, comin’ up on me when I was havin’ a piss."

The Spy crouched, repositioning his knife in his hand. “That’s not all you were doing, you vile, contemptible  _cretin!_  I should send an anonymous tip to your employers, letting them know what you get up to when you’re left to your own devices!”

"Oh yeah? And I should finish what I started on yer damn, precious suit, mark you as my goddamn territory for how often you come ‘round!"

The answering silence was just a beat too long, and just before the Spy lunged (sloppy, for him) the Sniper wondered if it was the setting sun reflecting off of the shed’s chipping paint, or if the Spook was  _flushed_  under his mask. He stepped back to avoid the saboteur’s swing, blocked a jab (just barely) with his kukri, and utilized his superior height to take a few long strides, forcing a bit of distance between them. 

"Maybe you’d like that, hey?" he teased, setting his mouth into a crooked grin. "Always thought you were a bit over-dramatic when it came to jarate…"

The Spy was practically spitting. “ _You throw urine, you loathesome degenerate!_ ” he hissed, “Do you actually think that’s  _normal_?” He parried, and his blade nicked the Sniper’s forearm. The Sniper grit his teeth.

"You don’t want to know what I think," the Sniper murmured in response, a sweep of his blade grazing the Spy’s cheek, tearing the mask. The Spy roared with anger and launched into a series of double-time attacks, while the Sniper concentrated on staying out of the Spy’s comparatively close melée range. 

"I rather suspect," the masked man spat, making quick steps this way and that to throw off his opponent, "that I  _do_  know what you think. I think you enjoy it too much. I think you have been—” he almost stumbled, but recovered quickly enough that the Sniper thought he might’ve imagined it, “—I think you have been  _getting off_  on this repugnant hobby of yours, all along!” When he thrust his blade, it stuck, just to the side of the Sniper’s ribs, lodged not in flesh but in the Sniper’s heavy leather vest, having just missed his enemy’s body. He moved to dislodge it, but the marksman clapped his free hand to the Spy’s wrist and held him fast. 

"Real cluey, there, mate. But I think," he shook the Spy by his wrist when he felt the man trying to wriggle free, "…that you kinda like it, too."

"You insufferable, odious, malodorous  _oaf_! How could you— you’re an absolute  _lunatic_ , did you know that?! You’re completely and utterly deranged, you crazed, demented—”

Suddenly, the Spy found himself pinned against a wall, the Sniper’s forearm pressed to his masked throat.      

"I. Am not. Crazy." The marksman enunciated so precisely as he crushed the Spy’s windpipe that the masked saboteur actually met the Sniper’s gaze, leveled coldly over the rims of his sunglasses. "I’m not crazy," he said again, quietly. 

The Spy moved his fingers slowly, with practised delicacy, trying to retrieve his knife. Once it was in his grasp, it would be a simple enough trick to turn the blade and slip it in between the Sniper’s ribs. But the Sniper grabbed his wrists, and they fought, and struggled, and the knife fell to the ground from inside the Sniper’s vest, and the Spy hissed with frustration and certainly not from the pain of his cufflinks digging into his wrist bones.

"You’re the crazy one," the Sniper insisted. 

"Oh? And how do you figure that?" the Spy countered, hoping to distract the Sniper with conversation long enough to toe his knife closer and then worm free. 

"You always come after me." 

"Mm? What’s your point?" It was no good; the knife had fallen directly behind the Sniper. He would have to slide his thigh between the Sniper’s legs to get his foot on it. 

"I think you fancy me."

The Spy looked up again, furious, struggling to dredge up the most scathing words he could muster, and the Sniper leaned closer still, pressing the Spy’s wrists into the wall. 

"And I think you protest too much. You hiss and spit like a wet cat, when I getcha with the jarate. But I think, you don’t actually mind gettin’ soaked so much, hey?" 

"You— you, you!" The Spy didn’t even have words for how he felt. He could feel his face going red with rage.

"Look, yer blushin’. I’m right, aren’t I? Go on, admit it."

"NO, you detestable  _worm!_ ”

"But you looked awful interested!"

"I did not!"

"Yes you did!"

"No I didn’t!"

"Yes, you did!" 

"You’re delirious! I did no such thing!"

"When I said I was gonna finish up on ya, an’ mark ya as mine—"

"I thought you meant you were going to masturbate onto me!"

The Sniper could see the colour drain from the Spy’s face the moment he realized what he’d said. 

"—And I was disgusted!" the Spy covered, but the Sniper’s mouth hung slightly open, and his brows had shot up, and the Spy snarled and struggled afresh. 

They fought until the Spy could get one hand free, which he used to dig a thumbnail into a pressure point and make the Sniper yelp with pain. It was just enough distraction for him to push the Sniper away from him and scramble for the hatch.

"Good Lord!" the Sniper exclaimed, not making any moves to follow. He picked up the Spy’s knife and swung it around. The Spy winced at how badly his enemy handled the folding knife; he was entirely artless, and the bit handle clattered noisily, and the Spy was just waiting for the Sniper to smack his fingers. "You. That— Huh." The knife’s loose handle spun around and around in the Sniper’s hand. Figures the bushman would treat it like a noisemaker at new years and not like a precision weapon.

"No," the Spy answered simply, knowing he should be gone already— damn the knife, he had others. He knew he should be down the stairs and far away, cloaked and heading for the nearest respawn locker. He knew this, he knew he could draw his gun and shoot at the man, despite the close quarters. He knew all of this, and yet, he did none of it, and he cursed his natural curiosity, for getting him into trouble again. Because, he remained, half-crouched and ready to spring at any moment, watching the Sniper take cautious steps in his direction. 

"I could, you know," he murmured, and the Spy could not will himself to leave. "I could do that. Put it to ya, like that. Makes sense, in a way."

The Spy inclined his head in question.

"Just does."

The Spy sneered and took a step backwards, readying himself for fight or flight. 

"But I mean it. I could. I bet you’d love it. Go on. Kneel." He crowded the Spy again, making his enemy feel their height difference.

It was easy enough to draw his gun and clock the Sniper with it. The marksman staggered, and the Spy delivered a solid roundhouse kick to the Sniper’s chest. Falling to one knee, the Sniper coughed and snarled, hauled himself up again, spat in the Spy’s general direction. 

"Fight me all you want," he rasped, "But now I know your dirty little secret, and nothing you do can change that." 

"Blackmailing me is a very poor idea, bushman. Do you have any idea who you are dealing with?" 

"Ain’t blackmail, necessarily." The Sniper shrugged, picking a splinter out of his hand. 

The Spy scoffed, but he could not read the Sniper’s expression, or his body language.

Finally, he asked. “Why are you so fixated on this?”

"Some Spy you are. Shouldn’t you know that?" the Sniper teased, sharp teeth glinting with a cruel grin.

"You can’t be  _that_  desperate.” 

"Maybe I just  _really_  wanna fuck you, mate.” 

The Sniper was still laughing, looking like a jackal, and the Spy steeled his nerves. He’d dealt with lunatics before. Indeed they were largely unpredictable, but they were also sloppy, in his experience, and sooner or later, the Sniper would give him an opening. 

"Last chance, Pet," the Sniper crooned, advancing again.

Maybe this  _was_  the opening.

"I’ll give ya ‘til the count a’three." 

  
Maybe this was the way to destroy this man, his most irksome of enemies. 

"One…" The boards creaked under the Sniper’s boots.

He had been a thorn in his side for too long.

"Two…" 

And now he’d have him, and any time the marksman saw him, saw his smirk under the mask, the echoes of his own hitched breath would resonate in his mind. 

"Three."

The Spy’s knees hit the floor. He hated the Sniper’s answering look: wolfish, smug, predatory. He laid his gloved hands on his pinstriped thighs and waited for the Sniper’s next move. What was death, in the face of what the Sniper was offering— that is, the proof that the man was more depraved than even he had thought. Perhaps these methods were a little extreme, but… He would suffer through it. Yes, for the good of the team. To ensure that his team mates weren’t picked off like fleas as they all swarmed the cart, he would keep the Sniper occupied. He would allow the man, already withdrawing his cock, to stroke off on him, soil his suit. He would see the man at his weakest, at the height of pleasure, as he splattered maybe his tie, his mask, his lips— he doubted it would be a very large load, since it seemed the Sniper found copious opportunities to touch himself, and he swallowed, wondering, waiting. He licked his dry lips.

"Want it that badly, do you? Ah, you dirty little thing."

He wanted to kill the Sniper slowly, just for that, but instead, he watched the way the marksman handled himself; his slow strokes, the way he flicked his rough thumb over the head.  He watched the purple blot of the man’s consistently bruised nailbed as his thumb moved in circles and dipped into the slit. So easily, his face softened, even as his cock hardened, and his stance remained steely and tense. He was poised to aim a pointy toe into the Spy’s soft tissues if the masked man made any sudden movements.

"Maybe you should start in, as well," the Sniper breathed, wrapping his fist around his tip.

The Spy glared up at him.

"Oh! So petulant," the Sniper answered. The Spy wanted to slap that grin off the man’s face, and he wanted to watch it stretch around a silent moan. "You won’t convince me you don’t wank off. What’s the problem, Spook? Embarassed that I’m bigger’n you?"

He should leave. He should kill this boorish lout and leave him with his cock out. But, the Sniper’s face had begun to flush, and he was fairly thick when he was fully erect, and already, those little sounds were rising up in the man’s throat, and the Spy found himself licking his lips again and balling his hands into fists so tight the leather creaked. He could feel it, the twinges of heat in his own gut, arousal building, and he wondered if he should fight it, at this point. If this was a ruse— and of course it was— it would look all the more convincing if he began to touch himself as well. 

As soon as his right hand moved up, and his gloved fingertips brushed over the fly of his trousers, he felt his cock jump. The Sniper practically purred to see the Spy’s hand petting over a rising bulge, licked his own lips, sped the movement of his hand. 

"You really needed to be knocked down a peg, Spook." The Sniper was shuffling his jeans down so he could roll his balls in his hand. "Hell, I think you might like being knocked down more’n I like doin’ it." 

With his fingers flickering over his own clothed erection, it was easy to ignore the cajoles of his enemy. It was easy to lean forward, into his own hand, and easy to become distracted— distracted enough to lean forward just a little further, just a few more inches, until he was breathing on the Sniper’s cock. The Sniper bucked with a gasp and bumped the head against the Spy’s cheek, and it was easy, so easy, for the Spy to turn his head and wrap his lips around it, lap against the underside, let his eyes go half-lidded, and suck the Sniper’s cock into his mouth. It was easy to breathe deep through his nose and for the first time in a long while, take in the scent of another man, easy to draw back slowly to tease and flick the slit.

When the Sniper’s fingers brushed his ear, though, over the balaclava, he snapped back, nearly falling over in his haste to get away, and the Sniper watched the Spy’s face contort into an expression of absolute horror. 

"Hold it right there, mate," the marksman growled, hand fisting in the mask’s clingy material. "We ain’t proper finished yet." 

The Spy sucked in a breath. He dragged his eyes up from his enemy’s cock to his face, and took in the smoky eyes with their heavy lids, the parted lips and the way his tongue darted out almost furtively to wet them. He chewed his own lips and nodded, getting to his knees again, trying to banish all the questions in his mind, the admonishments, the warnings, the declaration that this was a terrible mistake and if the enemy Sniper was the scum of the earth, what did this make him? He swallowed all of these things, refused them, and reached for the Sniper’s thighs. If he focused on the task, and not on the man himself, he could get through this, yes. 

He didn’t have to think about what it meant to be on his knees before his enemy, or how it felt to have the man’s hand— tenderly, by god!— stroke his head and ear. He could just relax into it, like any other job of the kind he’d ever done, and let his lips rub again against the head. 

The low sound that rose from the Sniper’s throat was utterly gratifying, and when the Spy glanced up, he saw that the man had his head thrown back, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. The Spy gave him a long, slow lick, and mouthed around the crown, and the Sniper drew in a sharp breath, and let it out in a quiet moan. 

It was easy, too easy.

His gloved hand slipped from the marksman’s hip to the man’s cock, so he could rub his thumb against the edge of the foreskin. The Sniper grunted and bucked, slipping deeper into the Spy’s mouth, and the Spy would have grinned if he could. 

"Sensitive, there?" he crooned, pulling away only to slip his fist around the Sniper’s length and stroke a few times, moving the foreskin up and down the shaft. 

“ _Christ,_  yes!” the Sniper exclaimed, his hands twitching. 

The Spy stifled a laugh. So this was the true nature of his arch-nemesis? If he could just keep his head in the game, he should emerge richer for it. 

He would have to ignore the high whine as he probed under the Sniper’s foreskin with his tongue, the whispered oaths and encouragements. “Oh, that’s lovely, pet, just aces!” would have to fall on deaf ears. “ _God_ , you know how to suck a cock!” would not stir any feeling in him. It certainly wouldn’t make him blush. He was better than that. A Spy is always in control, and this was just another way of enforcing that.

Again, the Sniper’s hands found their way to the Spy’s head, gripping the mask, fingertips curling around the shell of his ear, petting over his scalp, and he forced himself to concentrate. He pulled back, sucking hard, and the Sniper practically barked out a moan, fingers digging into the Spy’s skull, mouth stretched wide and eyes clenched shut. 

"Oh, fuck, Spook…"

Well, now he knew the man wasn’t picturing somebody else.

"You enjoyin’ this as much as I am?" His fingers trailed around the Spy’s cheekbone to his jaw. "Go on an’ touch yourself, yeah? Look, I can see the tent in yer trousers, luv, and god knows I love to watch."

The Spy fought conflicting urges: one, to deny his enemy the satisfaction, and the other, to give into his body’s hunger, to tear open his fly and stroke himself as hard and as fast as he sucked the Sniper’s cock.

Refusing to even look at the man, he took him deeper into his mouth, and then into his throat, swallowing, and pulling back wetly, sniffling a little, then back to it again. Back and forth, his tongue against the Sniper’s foreskin and head, he sucked, and slurped, and gave up entirely on decorum. He gripped the Sniper by the ass and hauled him in, forcing the marksman to fuck his throat, and groaning, despite himself, as he did.

"Do you love it?" the Sniper rasped, his thumb tracing the Spy’s ear and making his cock twitch in his suitpants.

The Spy made a muffled sound, nearly choked by the Sniper’s thrusts into his throat. 

"C’mon, I wanna hear you say it."

He moaned around the Sniper, realized he was massaging himself through his pants again, and fought to keep his eyes open. 

The hand that had been toying with one of his sensitive ears suddenly gripped his mask again. He was dragged from his efforts, and sucked his lip into his mouth, trying to gather the wetness dripping down his chin while the Sniper glared down at him.

"You love it. Don’t you."

It wasn’t a question. The Spy paused his hand in rubbing himself, and wiped his mouth. He ached to return to sucking the Sniper off, and it was ridiculous, he knew. He would cover it up, cover the way his mouth twitched, the way he salivated, still. 

"You love bein’ on yer knees for me." The hand not holding the Spy found its way to the Sniper’s balls, and then to his shaft, stroking leisurely in the Spy’s face. "You do. Tell me, would you be defiled by anybody, or am I just special?"

Clenching his teeth, the Spy refused to answer. He waited in silence for the inevitable, the hot splash of the Sniper’s release across his nose and cheeks. 

But, the Sniper’s hand stilled, his thumb and forefinger wrapping around his base, forestalling his orgasm. The Spy battled rising panic— not because he’d been anticipating anything, certainly not, but because this was an unexpected development. He had to be on his guard. 

"You’re not gonna get what you want by just sittin’ there, you know. You’ll find I’m a very patient man."

They could go on like this forever, the Spy surmised, neither one conceding. He could hear his team mates nearby, struggling alongside the payload. The Sniper inclined his head toward the sound.

"I mean, who knows, maybe you want an audience. Is that what does it for ya, Spook? Bein’ humiliated in front of everyone?"

"It is not," the Spy grit out.

"No? How ‘bout this, then?" He took half a step forward, so the tip of his cock was a mere hair’s breadth from the Spy’s mouth. The Sniper gave himself a long, slow pull, flickering over the head with his thumb as seemed to be his habit. He did it again, and again, and the Spy leaned back to see what the Sniper was doing, and the Sniper slid his foreskin up and down his shaft, until a drop of precome welled in his slit. 

The Spy swallowed, and could feel the heat on his face, the pulse in his ears, the raw want in his gut.

With just a sliver of a smile, the Sniper wiped that wetness along the Spy’s cheekbone, and watched the Spy’s posture go rigid. The Spy’s eyelids fluttered, and his hands clutched at his pantlegs as he took several deep, calming breaths. 

"You like that?"

Haltingly, the Spy nodded, eyes closed. He didn’t remember the last time he ached like this, and he wrestled for control of his body. The Sniper’s fingers skirted his ear again and the Spy leaned into the touch, one of his hands ghosting up the Sniper’s thigh, leather against canvas. When it reached the Sniper’s flesh, exposed by the marksman’s halfway-shucked trousers, he could only rub his thumb in a few mindless circles before he lunged, and the Sniper grabbed for the masked man’s throat to protect himself, but the Spy’s eyes were still closed, and his tongue quested for the skin.

The Sniper let him go, and the Spy sank into him. His lips, teeth, tongue worked into the crease between body and limb, sucking marks up over jutting hip bones, licking up the sharp taste of a day’s exertions. He pushed his nose into the places where the smell of the man was strongest, imagining the cloth over the bridge of his nose darkening with the Sniper’s sweat. If he got out of this alive, he would be bathed in the scent until he respawned. Already he was considering heading to the locker room after this, stowing this mask, and swapping it for another so this one would remain exactly as it was, and he could keep it for his own. Nobody would have to know, and if he wore it again on the field, and surrounded himself with the smell of this moment, the smell of this man, nobody would be any the wiser. 

Of course, he couldn’t do that if the Sniper stained it with cum. He shuddered, his tongue seeking the underside of the man’s cock again. 

If that happened, the mask would become a dirty little secret, hidden away somewhere to be brought out for later recollections. Special occasions, only. God it had been so long since he’d had something like that for himself, something he could smell and taste and feel, to remember someone by. 

"I knew it," the Sniper mumbled, and he sounded terribly pleased with himself, but the Spy couldn’t bring himself to care. 

"You taste," the Spy slurred around the Sniper’s tip, before sliding down again, taking the man into his throat one more time, pulling back sucking and licking and drooling, "Magnificent." He let his hand stray to his own fly, unbuttoned his slacks and unzipped them, reached in to squeeze himself through his Lycra undershorts and moaned richly, heartily around the Sniper’s cock. 

"Yeah? Keep talkin’, Spook." 

At first, “Hmmmn,” was all the Spy could say, but when he pulled off again, hand wrapping around his own length through his underwear, he licked his lips and tilted his face toward the Sniper’s. 

"You taste like you want it," he whispered. "You adore fucking my mouth and cannot wait to come on my face."

"Think I might want it about as much as you do. How do you like suckin’ me off just after I’ve had a piss, eh? Can you taste that too, then?"

"Ah, I’m not sure," the Spy answered, a wicked grin creeping across his face. "I shall have to check again."

He licked into the Sniper’s slit, pointed his tongue and reached up to hold the Sniper’s shaft, thumb just brushing the sensitive edge of his foreskin while his tongue probed the hole. The Sniper made a broken sound in his throat, hands sweeping through his own hair.

“ _Christ,_ " he panted, and the Spy could feel it, could feel how close the man was. 

"All I can taste is your precum, monsieur." He lapped at the head again. "And I love it." He stroked the Sniper as he’d seen the man do to himself, squeezing and pulling his foreskin up and down, as if trying to milk another drop from him. 

"Fuck,  _Spook—!_ " and the Sniper was coming, groaning through clenched teeth and holding onto the Spy’s mask and shoulder, fighting to stay upright as his body pulsed with it. 

The first droplets hit the Spy’s lips and he licked them without a thought, swallowing hungrily while the next hit the bridge of his nose, hot as it soaked into the mask. The next splattered his cheek and dripped off his jaw, landing on the leg of his trousers. His hand kept stroking, trying to draw it out, even as the Sniper’s sounds rose in volume. With one last racking shudder, the Sniper moaned and spurted onto the Spy’s tie, ruining the silk. 

The Sniper slumped forward, panting, while the Spy arched up, coming into his hand and staining his underwear. He bit his lip to stay quiet, but a high whine escaped through his nose when he felt the wet gush around his cock as he came all over himself. His shoulders pitched inward, his face pressed into the Sniper’s sweaty thigh, as he jolted and shook. 

He pressed a kiss to the skin before he realized what he was doing, and straightened. 

"You look a right mess," the Sniper laughed. "Have a look." He found his kukri and held it out so the Spy could see his own reflection in the blade. 

Indeed, there was no hiding what had just transpired. The white streaks across his mask and tie, the dots on his trousers, the wet patch staining his underwear— he took it all in as an outside observer, and knew there would be no denying it. 

But, to see it as himself, he took pleasure in it, and stared for a long while at the image, reflected in the curved steel. He wanted to memorize every aspect of himself at this moment. 

The Sniper stuck his blade into the floorboards and tucked himself neatly into his pants again. Kukri in hand once more, he took a step toward the Spy. 

"You look so thoroughly fucked, it almost seems wrong, killing you." 

The Spy couldn’t let it happen.

He cloaked and bolted for the stairs.

The Sniper gave chase, but the Spy was determined. If he was killed, then respawn would pick up his body, and through its machinations, his mask, tie, suit— everything would be cleaned, and he would lose all evidence that this tryst ever occurred. He would have nothing to remind him, no beautifully stained souvenier for him to keep. 

He practically leapt into the respawn locker, and had to stop himself from crying ‘Sanctuary!’ as he crossed the threshhold, safe. If he had, it would have been drowned out by the earth-shaking explosion that knocked him from his feet and sent him sprawling, even as the Administrator announced victory for his team. 

He changed his mask and tie in record time, rolling them into an inconspicuous ball in his locker, and grabbed more bullets for his Ambassador. When he left the room, the Sniper was standing there, waiting for him, humiliation round be damned. He took in the Spy’s cleaner appearance, and clicked his tongue.

"Pity," he said, before the Spy put a bullet between his eyes.

He retreated to his bunk ahead of his team mates, told the Scout to go away when he knocked on his door to invite him to the team’s celebrations. He was too busy trying to find a good place to hide the mask and tie.

"Well, anyway, here’s a copy of today’s numbers," the Scout continued from the other side of the Spy’s locked door, as he shoved some folded print-outs through the crack underneath. "Smell ya later!" the runner called, his footfalls echoing off the concrete.

The Spy bent to collect the papers, and mulled over the score board. He knew he wouldn’t be very high up; he’d been distracted for the final leg of the mission, and really, payload challenges were not his best event. Still, the numbers weren’t quite adding up. Looking through the kill feed, he had one headshot in his favour and three against him, despite the fact that he couldn’t remember the Sniper killing him even once that round. He turned the paper over and over, still clutching the ruined mask with its three telltale stains, and when he realized the joke, he laughed. What a low-down dirty trick. 

**Author's Note:**

> That’s a wrap everybody! Hope you enjoyed! Whoo! Also, sorry if the formatting is a little screwy. Find me on tumblr for more filthy words. :3


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